For days after you had told me you weren’t coming back, the strip of photos from the photo booth in Seattle stayed tacked to the wall above my computer. I tried to decide if I should throw it out, if I should be angry and how much so. Angry that after all of our time together, including the months I had awaited your return, I’d never even heard you fart––not once. That this other person might get to, or already had, and I wouldn’t have the chance. But most of all I was struggling to see things objectively; to find the right way to leave what we had, to wish you the best, to compartmentalize us into “past,” and to decide whether it was right to continue using your Netflix account. And none of the ill-placed jokes I made were helping. I took the photos off of the wall and slid them under a shoebox in the closet where they would stay until I knew.